He Played Like Nothing Was Wrong, a poem by Aaron Nava
Furry and small he was
A European dog for sure.
Snow, rain, wind, and heat.
He always came out.
Food was always good.
He never complained.
Bones from the butcher, my friend,
always made him wag his tail.
He was my Rusty. My pet.
He loved to be brushed and
When we moved, he moved with us.
His offspring stayed behind.
He loved the open space and run of
the neighborhood. He was arrested once.
We all got older, even him.
We played the night before. The next
morning, my brother was crying. I knew.
But why didn't he tell me?